


A Little Holiday Debauchery Never Hurt Anyone

by defying3reason



Series: College Boys and High School Girls [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas, Drinking Games, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2851487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defying3reason/pseuds/defying3reason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras loves his friends, really he does, but he can't help feeling a little uncomfortable at gatherings that are purely social and not activist-related. Case in point, Courfeyrac's annual holiday Christmas party and the stupid drinking games that go with it.</p><p>In other words, Seven Minutes in Heaven with Grantaire is anything but heavenly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Holiday Debauchery Never Hurt Anyone

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, folks! This is indeed a part of my CB&HSG universe. Most of the fic goes during the boys' sophomore year of school, with the end bit taking place a few years after graduation. Hope you like it :)
> 
> This fic is loosely based off of experiences I had at a Christmas party this year. Drenga is an invention of a friend of mine, and whereas the game is a lot of fun...I'm definitely more of an Enjolras than a Courfeyrac :P

“Merry Christmas, sweetie. Don’t you dare wait until spring break to come home and say hi to your family.”

Combeferre’s pale cheeks flushed a brilliant hue that almost matched the scarf Feuilly had knit him, and he mumbled something apologetically, most likely related to how busy finals had been. His mother didn’t look impressed.

“I wasn’t aware finals had been extended so as to encompass the entirety of the semester. That certainly wasn’t how they did things back when I went to your school.”

Enjolras leaned against his car and shifted his weight so that he wasn’t standing in a pile of slush in the driveway. He and Combeferre were supposed to be leaving the family dinner and Yankee Swap at Combeferre’s parents’ house for a party at Courfeyrac’s apartment, but it looked like Combeferre’s mother was going to be needling him about his absenteeism for a few minutes longer. Not being overly eager to get on the road, Enjolras made no efforts to rescue his friend from the uncomfortable nagging and settled in for the wait.

In truth, he was attending Courfeyrac’s party more out of obligation to his friends than any real desire to go. The family dinner at Combeferre’s parents’ had been more to his tastes as a holiday celebration; quiet, polite conversation, good food, and sensible gifts. Courfeyrac had distributed condoms and flavored lube as favors at his last party, and all of his party games seemed to involve dangerous levels of intoxication, so Enjolras’ hopes for enjoying the next party were low at best.

As it stood, they were teetering on the verge of being fashionably late. If Combeferre really took his time with his mother they’d be nearly an hour late, and if the first guests started filtering our around midnight then they’d only have to be at the party for a maximum of two hours without offending their host.

Unfortunately, Combeferre assuaged his guilt at blowing off his parents for the better part of the semester and extracted himself fairly quickly from his mother’s clutches. He loaded his presents into the back of Enjolras’ car and hopped into the passenger side. Enjolras reluctantly repeated his farewells to his friend’s mother, then got into his car and started towards Courfeyrac’s.

“Don’t take the main roads, Enj. The traffic by the malls is going to be ridiculous.”

“Oh, yeah…” Enjolras abruptly switched courses, silently cursing Combeferre’s attentiveness to his driving. The mall traffic could easily have added another half hour to their commute, if not more.

Combeferre looked amused. “Come on, Enjolras. You look like you’re volunteering for a root canal.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.” Enjolras eyed him warily out of the corner of his eye, keeping his focus mostly on the road. “Do I really look upset?”

“Yes, you do. And I don’t understand why. Now that we’re not hosting them at my place anymore, I think Courfeyrac’s parties are a lot of fun.”

“You would think that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Combeferre asked.

Enjolras sighed, and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. “I’m the only one of us who doesn’t drink, and I’m the only one who isn’t running around trying to hook up with any orifice that seems willing.”

“You’re lucky we’ve been friends so long. Otherwise I’d be forced to take offense.”

“Sorry. You’re exempted from the second part, naturally, but you do drink socially. The parties aren’t fun if you’re sober and celibate. Everyone thinks they’re a lot more clever than they are once they’re intoxicated, and even if you can get a decent conversation started it’s usually too loud to carry one out successfully, and if you try to amuse yourself with a book you’re mislabeled as being bored and everyone comes down on you at once to try to loosen you up and make you have fun.” Enjolras wrinkled his nose up in distaste. “If it wouldn’t hurt Courfeyrac’s feelings I’d skip these things entirely.”

“I know. We all know, and he greatly appreciates the fact that you attend.” Combeferre reached out a hand and patted his arm. “I assure you, Enjolras, your closest friends aren’t actively trying to torture you, either. It’s all accidental. When they all surround you while you’re reading, they’re trying to get you to liven up and enjoy yourself.”

“I enjoy reading.”

“You look rather severe when you do it, and besides that, a Christmas party isn’t the best environment for reading up on the transatlantic slave trade.”

“…that was at the fourth of July barbecue, and it seemed seasonally appropriate.”

Combeferre let him brood in silence for the remainder of the drive, which passed all too quickly for Enjolras’ tastes. Before he knew it he was parking his Prius behind Feuilly’s truck, and the two of them were shouldering the bags of presents they’d brought for their friends and carefully making their way up the icy path to Courfeyrac’s apartment. Enjolras allowed himself one last scowl, then fixed his expression to distant civility as Combeferre reached to open the door.

He frowned when he found it locked. Courfeyrac rarely locked his door, and tended to leave it open during parties. Combeferre set one of the bags he was holding on the stoop and took out his cellphone. It took a few rings for Courfeyrac to answer, and based on the volume and slurring his friends inferred that an hour of partying was enough to have their host well on the way to a marvelous state of drunkenness.

“Hey, ‘Ferre! Are you and Enjypants finally here? Yeah, I said it. D’ya like it? Don’t tell Enjypants, but Bahorel was the one who made it up.”

The cold mask of civility crumbled, and Enjolras was involuntarily scowling again. “I don’t think I can do this, ‘Ferre.”

“Suck it up, you’ll be fine.” Combeferre shifted the phone and thus his attention. “Yes, Courf, we’re here. Can you let us in? The door is locked, for some reason.”

“Oh, yeah, we’re playing Drenga and we didn’ wanna be taken unawares.”

“Drenga?” Combeferre repeated, but Courfeyrac had hung up. He turned a bemused look to Enjolras. “I don’t suppose you know what Drenga is.”

“Some inane drinking game, is my guess.” All of Courfeyrac’s games were inane drinking games, so it was a pretty fair guess.

After a moment or two, Courfeyrac flung open the door, bright eyed and grinning from ear to ear, obviously thrilled to receive his guests. “Hey, guys!”

Enjolras and Combeferre both backed up a few steps, as it had looked uncomfortably like Courfeyrac was rushing forward to hug one of them. Normally Combeferre was fine accepting a hug from one of his friends, though he rarely gave them. Enjolras didn’t come from a home free with physical affection and so found excessive physical contact uncomfortable under the best of circumstances, and this was _not_ the best of circumstances.

Courfeyrac was clad in exactly three things: the fluffy blue scarf Feuilly had knit him for Christmas, a red felt reindeer antler headband, and a throw pillow from his couch that he was holding over his crotch. “Merry Christmas!” he yelled, which was answered by other enthusiastic yells from the interior of the apartment.

Enjolras’ brow creased in alarm. “Can I wait in the car?”

“Oh come on.” Combeferre grabbed his arm and hauled him inside.

Courfeyrac, completely unabashed about his nudity, directed them to drop their things in the kitchen and then pranced through the room and into the kitchen. There was no throw pillow for his backside, so they were treated to the sight of his perky asscheeks dancing away from them.

Enjolras tried to run away again, but Combeferre had a pretty solid grip on his arm. He gave Enjolras a warning look, and with another heavy sigh, Enjolras yanked his scarf off, followed by his coat, and shoved them on the pile of winter-wear on the table. “This party is already promising to be a disaster.”

“Come on, just because Courfeyrac is…particularly festive already doesn’t mean the rest of the night is going to be quite so debauched.” Combeferre slid his jacket off much more gracefully and draped it over a crocheted shawl that they both (rightfully) guessed to be Jehan’s.

“Did you notice…that is…is it just me, or is Courfeyrac’s backside particularly hairy?”

Combeferre blinked at him. “I wasn’t looking. In fact, I was _pointedly_ not looking.”

“Oh. Well, I mean I tried not to but he was dancing and…it just, it seemed unusually hairy, that’s all.”

“It probably just looks that way to you because you’re a blond. All your hair is really light.” Combeferre rolled back his shirtsleeve and examined the thin orange hairs on his forearm. “I mean, that happens to me. Darker body hair is more visible than what we’re used to, what with having fair hair. Whenever Feuilly’s wearing shorts I always feel like I’m looking at a sasquatch, but I don’t think his legs are actually any hairier than mine.”

“Mm. Does it seem odd to you that Bossuet has so little hair on his head and so very much on the rest of him?”

Combeferre stifled a snort, by which point they’d finished removing their coats, scarves, boots, gloves, and whatnot. Enjolras frowned at the pile. “You’d think there’d be more boots and stuff out here. Considering how many of us there are.”

Combeferre shrugged his shoulders and the two of them walked into the living room.

They probably shouldn’t have been surprised to find that Courfeyrac was not alone in his nudity. They knew their friends, after all. They’d been hanging out with the same group of college students for over a year, and yet…

Enjolras blinked a few times, took a tentative step back, and once more had his arm clamped by Combeferre to keep him from running away.

Their friends were sitting in a sprawling circle with the coffee table pulled into the center, three sets of wooden blocks set up as towers on it. Levels of clothing in the room fluctuated wildly. They ran the gamut from Courfeyrac-bare-assedness to Joly, who was wearing enough clothing for a dozen college students.

The hypochondriac waved cheerfully from a deep cocoon of blankets, slippers, and a fluffy grandmother-style bathrobe. “Hi, guys! What took you so long? We’ve been waiting for you to show up for forever.”

Courfeyrac had resumed his seat, pillow still covering his crotch. He was dead center in front of the coffee table, chugging from a suspiciously large novelty mug of eggnog and giggling at something Bahorel was saying. Bahorel wasn’t bare-assed, but he was closer to Courfeyrac’s level of the clothing-scale than Joly’s. He’d stripped down to a clingy pair of boxer-briefs, yet he was still wearing his seashell necklace and his douchey aviator sunglasses.

Combeferre took a seat next to Jehan, who wasn’t wearing pants but had an abundance of shirts and two hats jauntily perched over a kerchief. “Merry Christmas, dearest.” Jehan leaned over and kissed Combeferre’s cheek. He gave the poet’s hand a tender squeeze, then set about pouring a drink. Enjolras, meanwhile, continued to hover awkwardly in the doorway.

“Not to be a downer,” Enjolras began, which was met with exaggerated groans from all of his friends. “But what exactly are you all doing?”

“The game is Drenga, or Drunk-Jenga,” Feuilly explained. “Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Grantaire devised it and have been slowly assembling it at the Corinth over the course of the semester.”

“Speaking of Grantaire…” Enjolras took another glance around the room. Bossuet was perched on the arm of the armchair just next to Joly, Bahorel was sprawled across the floor on the other side of the coffeetable from Courfeyrac, Feuilly was sitting on the futon, and Jehan and Combeferre were on the couch, but Grantaire was nowhere to be seen.

“He had a few too many and he’s sleeping it off in my room,” Courfeyrac explained. “So it’s like Jenga, but all the tiles have instructions on them and you have to, you have to do the thing once you pull the block. And if you knock the tower over there are penalties.”

“Grantaire blacked out _already_?” Enjolras yelped. “The party barely started!”

“Yes, but he started well before the party,” Feuilly said. “C’mon, Enjolras, it’s not like this is anything new. I’m sure he’ll be up and about again in another hour or so. Have a seat and pull a block.”

“If it’s Drunk-Jenga, can I even play?”

“Sure you can.” Joly held up his mug in demonstration. “I’ve got a nasty cold at the moment, so I’m only drinking hot water with lemon in it. They’re letting me play along anyway. I just drink my tea instead of doing shots, and I put on extra layers before we started so that when I strip I won’t turn my cold into all-out _pneumonia_. This game is probably going to be the death of the rest of you. You’re going to get hypothermia lounging around naked like that, and getting so drunk you can’t even feel it.”

“C’mon, Enj. S’fine. If you’re that uncomfortable doing what you pull then we can modify it for you. Pour yourself a glass of water and grab a tile.” Courfeyrac waved him towards the futon, and a moment later Enjolras was sitting next to Feuilly with a tumbler of tap water in his hand. He tapped a few of the Jenga blocks until he found a loose one and extracted it.

“It says Girls Strip on it.”

“Oh, we don’t have any girls,” Legle observed with a pout.

“We were supposed to have some, but I think we got stood up,” Courfeyrac noted. “Okay, modified rule then. Girls Strip tiles will now be additional Guys Strip tiles. So everyone remove one item of clothing.”

Regretting that he’d so thoroughly divested himself of bulky winter gear in the kitchen, Enjolras settled for removing his watch. Bahorel started to complain, but Courfeyrac leaned over and hit him. “C’mon, it’s a miracle he’s even playing.”

The game proceeded almost innocently after that. Feuilly had to serenade the room, and chose to do so with a rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Courfeyrac was dared to lick the shell of Bahorel’s ear, Combeferre had to drink a shot (which he did with a sarcastic “Heavens, anything but that!”), and Legle was just about to pull his block when Courfeyrac’s bedroom door squeaked open. Bossuet lit up, and turned around to peer over the back of the couch. “R! You’re awake.”

Grantaire squinted at the room, looking as though he met the bare minimum for consciousness. His greasy hair was sticking up ridiculously, and he was wavering unsteadily on his sock-clad feet. “How long was I out…wait, are you guys playing Drenga without me? Fucking assholes. I invented this fucking thing.”

“We’re not very far in-”

“You’re particularly naked if that’s the case, Courf.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Please, we all know who the exhibitionists in this clique are.” He toasted Bahorel, who toasted him back with a dixie-cup Jell-o shot. “Just have a seat and pull a block. Bossuet was about to go, but if you sit on the floor next to me then you’ll be next.”

Grantaire plopped down, rather heavily from the sounds of it, just in front of Legle’s legs and quickly snagged a tile from the Jenga tower nearest him, much to Legle’s relief. He was getting a bit drunk and the towers a bit wobbly for his luck to hold out much longer, and the penalties for upsetting towers were even more ominous for their vague definition.

Grantaire squinted at the tile, rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, and then tried again. “I got Butt Tattoo. Aw shit, I forgot how this works. Does that mean I’m getting a butt tattoo or drawing one?”

“Since you can actually draw, I think you should be the one giving it,” Courfeyrac said.

Enjolras decidedly did not like the sound of this one. “What’s butt tattoo?” he asked.

Feuilly shrugged. “No one’s pulled that one yet.”

“It means I’m drawing on somebody’s butt. Hold on.” Grantaire crawled across the room on his hands and knees until he reached the Christmas tree. He’d left his messenger bag between the tree and the bookcase, and when he returned from it he had a bag of sharpies. “All right. Who’s getting a semi-permanent ass-tat?”

Joly tapped his nose with his finger, a gesture repeated all around the room, lastly by a bewildered Enjolras who had been taking a sip of his tap water when Joly first made the gesture. He swore under his breath while his friends burst into laughter and gestured at him.

Courfeyrac let out a loud whoop. “Drop your pants, Enj! You’re the victim!”

“But it’s not even my turn! I shouldn’t be humiliated like this when it’s not my turn.”

“Come on, Enj. Everyone else has been a good sport so far,” Feuilly said. “When Bahorel pulled Dare we made him go outside and sing a Christmas carol to the neighbors in his underpants and Courfeyrac’s Christmas antlers. This is light in comparison.”

“Besides, Grantaire can actually draw,” Jehan reminded him. “You might even like your tattoo.”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. “Does it have to be on my ass?”

“Them’s the rules,” Courfeyrac said.

“I didn’t know the rules when I was coerced into playing!”

“It’s fine, guys. If he doesn’t want to do it then he doesn’t have to do it,” Grantaire mumbled. To Enjolras’ surprise, he looked just as uncomfortable with the situation as Enjolras himself was, which was upsetting for a whole host of other reasons.

Enjolras had been friends with Grantaire for a little over a year now, which was plenty of time to realize that the cynical drunkard was head over heels in love with him. At the moment, though he liked Grantaire well enough (when he wasn’t being intentionally infuriating) Enjolras didn’t return the feelings, but he wouldn’t rule out the possibility of _ever_ returning them. And since he did like Grantaire as a friend, he didn’t like upsetting him if he could help it. His embarrassed refusal to let Grantaire play a stupid game with him was probably hurtful, in light of the crush. He knew full well the slacker-artist tried to compensate for his crippling self-worth issues with terrible jokes, but that in reality Grantaire did genuinely think poorly of himself, and he was inclined to read judgment and malice in his crush’s actions that really weren’t there.

Against all inclination, Enjolras got up from the futon and sat down in the middle of an open expanse of floor in front of the television. “Just don’t draw anything too ridiculous or vulgar.”

“Does it really matter, Enjolras?” Bahorel asked. “I’d think the only people who are going to see it are sitting in this room.”

“That is certainly true,” Combeferre agreed.

Enjolras flipped them off and then undid the top button of his jeans. Grantaire was still standing on the other side of the room with the bag of sharpies in his hand, looking pale and unsteady on his feet. “Grantaire, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, m’fine. Hold on.” He snatched a Jell-o shot, downed it, and then shook out his hands. “Okay, m’good.”

Enjolras stretched flat on the floor, pulling down pants and briefs just enough to give Grantaire an adequate piece of canvas. One of his friends whistled, but he was facing away from the room and couldn’t tell who. He heard some mutinous mutterings from his friends, who were jealous of his ass for some reason beyond his comprehension. An ass was an ass, wasn’t it? (Unless their asses were all as hairy as Courfeyrac’s, in which case he could understand them preferring his pale body hair).

Grantaire set to work, touching marker to skin with the most hesitant, careful strokes imaginable. It was clear he wasn’t merely scrawling something obscene to get the task over with, which would have been what was expected in a silly college drinking game. It seemed like he was actually trying to draw something, whatever it was. It garnered a few impressed murmurs from the people around the room, though it took a few minutes before the picture, whatever it was, took enough shape for this praise to be made. An interminable amount of time later, Grantaire capped the sharpie and said he was done.

Despite the opportunity the game had given him, Grantaire never touched Enjolras himself. Only the markers ever touched his skin.

“What did you draw on me?” Enjolras asked.

“It’s actually really pretty,” Jehan gushed. “I might like that for a real tattoo, though not on my ass.”

“You’d like it, Enjolras,” Combeferre assured him. “He drew a bunch of protesters with a red flag and a fire blazing behind them.”

“It’s actually supposed to be a riot, but I suppose you idiots would see a peaceful protest,” Grantaire said with a smirk. Enjolras had already fixed his clothing, but he was tempted to head into the bathroom and drop his pants immediately, on the off chance he could contort enough to view his own ass in Courfeyrac’s tiny bathroom mirror. “I figured I might as well draw something you’d like.”

“That did make the experience a bit better. Thank you.”

Grantaire didn’t seem to know what to make of Enjolras’ civility, so he retreated to his spot, red faced and twitchy, with a good sized bottle he’d snagged from a TV-tray mini-bar that had been constructed for the party.

The game continued for a few more turns, and really it was too ridiculous for Enjolras to hold onto much resentment. In addition to “naughty” tiles that encouraged drinking and nudity, there were tiles that were just plain silly, like giving your neighbor moose ears, and there were some that were even oddly nice. Jehan pulled Compliments, which meant he had to say something nice to everyone in the circle.

He cleared his throat, and then began. “Bahorel, you’re wonderfully protective of your friends and I find it endearing. Feuilly, you’re one of the most creative people I’ve ever met and I absolutely love the scarves you’ve made for everyone. I think I’ll wear mine every day the season permits. Enjolras, I sincerely believe that your passion and drive is going to change the world somehow for the good. Combeferre, I’m not sure I have words for what your friendship and support means to me, but that’s not much of a compliment so I’ll also add that you have the most handsome intellect I’ve ever encountered. And Grantaire, you’ve got a beautiful soul, even if you like to try to hide that from people. Joly has the sweetest temper of us, unless he needs to break character to keep Bossuet from doing something regrettable, and Bossuet’s determination to always be happy whatever the circumstances is something I’ve always admired.”

Jehan’s compliments were met with a round of applause and some toasting. Combeferre was still faintly blushing from his two turns later.

“I’m glad Jehan pulled that one. I knew he’d be good at it,” Grantaire mumbled.

“He skipped Courfeyrac though,” Legle said.

Enjolras had picked up on that right away, but he’d been hoping no one else would have noticed. Then again, Courfeyrac was pouting, so that was regrettable, and couldn’t go unacknowledged.

Jehan played it off well, pretending that he’d merely been overwhelmed by having so many friends to compliment. “I’m very sorry, dear. I hope you won’t take it personally?”

“Course not. But I’d still like my compliment,” Courfeyrac said.

“All right. Let’s see, how this? You’re the dearest, most generous friend anyone could ask for, and you’re an excellent host.” Jehan breathed a small sigh of relief when that contented his friend, and that his wine-loosened tongue hadn’t betrayed him into giving a somewhat more candid compliment than he’d have liked.

Bahorel went next. “Seven Minutes in Heaven, Cupid’s Choice. I get the Seven Minutes in Heaven part, but what the fuck’s Cupid’s Choice?”

“It means you pick the couple. And you can pick yourself, but it doesn’t have to be you,” Courfeyrac said.

Bahorel’s face gave an odd twitch, but the moment passed quickly and then he was back to his usual shit eating grin. “Oh yeah. I’m guessing we came up with this when we figured there were going to be girls playing with us, because I don’t know why you’d want a block like that when you’re just playing with a bunch of dudes.”

“Hey, it’s still a perfectly acceptable tile to me.” Courfeyrac leaned his head on Grantaire’s shoulder and nuzzled against him like a big, drunken cat. “You straight boys just need to loosen up a little.”

Bahorel narrowed his eyes and peered around the room. “Let’s see…I’m obviously not going to heaven without a chick in the room. Hm…ah, fuck it. Enjolras and R.”

Quite a few of their friends let out a groan, and Legle threw a crumpled up Dixie cup at Bahorel. “Dude, that’s not nice.”

“What? At least one person’ll be happy this way.”

Enjolras wondered if he was the one who was supposed to be happy, because Grantaire looked sick to his stomach. It also didn’t help that he wasn’t exactly sure what Seven Minutes in Heaven was. “Um…what is it we’re supposed to be doing?”

“Making out in a closet for seven minutes,” Feuilly explained. He elaborated in a lower tone. “And considering the fact that Grantaire has actual feelings for you, it’s pretty shitty of Bahorel to do this.”

“Agreed,” Enjolras muttered back. Still, even though he’d never volunteer to play such a game, he found himself oddly excited.

Again, it’s not that he disliked Grantaire or anything like that, he just didn’t _like_ him enough to risk doing anything other than turning down his advances. Inexperienced though he was with romance, he could tell that leading Grantaire on would have disastrous results, and he wanted to be positive of his own feelings before expressing even the barest bit of interest.

Feelings he apparently did possess in some measure, because the idea of shutting himself up in a closet with Grantaire for seven minutes didn’t sound unpleasant in the least. He made sure to keep his face an unreadable mask, which of course gave his friends entirely the wrong idea.

Grantaire slammed his head against the coffee table, which made one of the Jenga towers lean dangerously. “This is fucking stupid. Enj, you don’t have to do this.”

Of course he didn’t have to, but he’d rather like to and the game gave him a convenient cover that kept him from admitting as much. “Grantaire, I’ve already let you draw on my ass tonight. I think I can tolerate seven minutes in a closet.”

“I don’t actually have a closet that’ll work,” Courfeyrac said. He stood up, forgot the pillow, and then sat down again. “Oops. Hold on.” He set down his drink and then pressed the pillow over his crotch. “Kay, follow me. The bathroom’s pretty small. That’s probably the best place to do this.”

Courfeyrac escorted his guests through the kitchen and into the little bathroom. He gave Grantaire a bracing pat on the arm, and then shut them in and returned to the living room. From the sounds of it, the game was continuing on without them.

Enjolras took a steadying breath, then turned to face Grantaire, not quite sure what to expect but still carrying that odd excited lightness that he wasn’t ready to examine. His unexpected enthusiasm deflated as soon as he looked at Grantaire, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. Grantaire shuffled over to the tub, sat on the edge, and took out a pack of cigarettes.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asked.

“If you want to just, like, sit here for seven minutes that’s fine with me. I won’t tell anyone that we didn’t…you know.”

Oh. That actually made a lot of sense.

And of course Grantaire didn’t actually want to make out with him. He joked about it often enough, but he never made the offer in a manner Enjolras could accept. Maybe their friends had made too much of Grantaire’s supposed feelings anyway. He’d gone on many a rant about Enjolras’ physical virtues, but they couldn’t be considered sincere. Maybe he just picked on Enjolras for being pretty the way he picked on Bossuet for being bald, or Joly’s hypochondria, or Courfeyrac’s promiscuity. Maybe there really wasn’t anything more to it.

Besides, Grantaire hadn’t brushed his teeth since passing out drunk. Kissing him probably wouldn’t have been any fun.

Enjolras lowered the toilet lid and then sat down across from Grantaire. “So we’re just going to sit here in silence for seven minutes then?”

“Well, I mean I guess we don’t have to be silent. But do you even want to talk to me?”

“I’d rather you not smoke. This is a pretty small space for it.”

Grantaire nodded, and shoved the cigarettes back into his pocket. “Uh…sorry. I came up with most of the tiles myself, and they seemed like a good idea when we were, like, shitfaced at the Corinth. But I never expected you to play. I didn’t think you’d get stuck doing this stuff. Least of all with me.”

“I don’t mind,” Enjolras said, possibly a bit too quickly based on the way Grantaire’s head snapped up to stare at him. “I mean, I’m playing voluntarily. Everyone’s been good about modifying the rules in case someone’s uncomfortable. Grantaire, will you stop looking at me like I’ve got twelve heads? It’s disconcerting.”

“Sorry. But I mean, you’re like the most dignified college kid in the world. This shit just seems beneath you somehow.”

“I like having fun.”

“Your idea of fun involves a library and books that throw normal people into depressive cycles.”

Enjolras huffed at that. “You can’t fix what’s wrong with society if you don’t learn about it and acknowledge the flaws.”

“Fuck, but I wish it wouldn’t feel like some kind of violation to touch you. You’re so hot when you spout your misguided radical BS.”

Enjolras’ brow wrinkled in confusion. “Why would you feel violated to touch me?”

“Uh…wouldn’t you feel violated to have my hands on you? I mean…lookit me.” Grantaire cast a disparaging glance down at his body, which was mostly hidden by unflattering baggy clothing, and then returned his gaze to Enjolras. “Everyone knows that if you did have a sex drive, you’d go out and seduce another golden god. Not me.”

“I have a sex drive,” Enjolras said, almost petulantly.

“I thought you were asexual.”

“I said I was celibate. It’s not the same thing. Celibacy is a choice, not an orientation.”

“Oh.” Grantaire gave a dismal nod, then went back to sulking and silently fidgeting.

Enjolras sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed. After another tense moment he found himself speaking his wishes, much to his surprise.

“You know, if you wanted to kiss me I wouldn’t mind. Otherwise I’d feel like we’re cheating.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened. It should have looked comical, but all Enjolras could think was that his irises really were the loveliest shade of blue. Then the gob smacked expression retreated behind a familiar look of exuberant sarcasm. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to break the rules, would we? God, Enjolras. It’s like you’ve only got a textbook understanding of what fun and games are supposed to be like.”

“You can sit and sulk for the remaining three minutes if you’d like, but I’ll be forced to tell everyone that you broke the rules and are therefore untrustworthy for the remainder of the game.”

“I’m trying to be respectful,” Grantaire snapped. “You obviously don’t want to kiss me. You seized up the second Bahorel picked us, and you’ve never done anything but recoil from me. I get it, so don’t worry.”

Enjolras wanted to shout, because Grantaire actually didn’t get it at all, and suddenly the bathroom wasn’t just small, it was unbearably confined. He got up from the toilet and paced the three steps he was able to.

Then, unexpectedly, Grantaire was there. He grabbed Enjolras’ arm, much the way Combeferre had, and pulled him close. Enjolras had just enough time to register that with their chests pressed together like that he was touching more of Grantaire’s body than he’d ever touched another person, save maybe his mother. But he didn’t want to think about his mother; he wanted to think about the grip Grantaire still had on his arm, and the way his fingers were tangling in Enjolras’ hair and guiding his face closer, and then his brain sort of went quiet at the first touch of Grantaire’s chapped lips against his.

Enjolras’ mouth had still been hanging open in shock, which Grantaire seemed to take as more intentional than it was because the kiss progressed pretty quickly. Enjolras had no idea what to do. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he balled them into fists and then snapped his eyes shut and tried to memorize everything that was happening. He’d expected the kiss to be at least a little unpleasant because of Grantaire’s breath, but he tasted pleasantly of the peppermint liquor he’d been drinking, and besides that, he did delightful things with his tongue that would have made up for an unpleasant flavor if one had existed.

“Time’s up!”

Enjolras almost jumped out of his skin. He’d been so lost in what was happening that the loud banging on the door and Bahorel’s shout took him completely by surprise. Before he could blink, Grantaire was standing as far from him as he could get, head down and hands shoved in his pockets.

“We’ll join you in a moment,” Enjolras called. Bahorel told them to take their time, lewdness heavily implied as an undertone, and then went back to the living room.

Grantaire went for the door, but Enjolras stopped him. “Wait, we should-”

“Enjolras, it’s fine. It was a stupid game. Just forget about it.” Grantaire shook him off, opened the door, and stomped back into the living room.

Enjolras touched a hand to his lips, overcome with regret and longing and more than a little angry at himself for harboring such feelings. If he wouldn’t seek Grantaire out for such an activity without the coercive veil of a game then he had no right to make a big deal of this. He wasn’t owed anything.

It’s not like he actually wanted to be boyfriends with Grantaire, or anything stupid like that.

Enjolras was undeniably distracted for the remainder of Drenga. He was brooding over his emotions, trying to puzzle out how he actually felt, and got so lost in himself that he barely noticed what passed in the game. He certainly didn’t see that Grantaire was in a state similar to his own.

The game came to a sudden end when Bossuet spectacularly demolished all three towers in one maneuver. Comments were made about how they were surprised to have gotten in as many rounds as they had with their Eagle playing. Bossuet good naturedly flipped them off, then asked what his penalty was.

“Uh…guys, we never came up with a penalty,” Grantaire said, then dissolved into a fit of laughter. “We just said it had to be dire.”

“Shit. Guys, we need a penalty!” Courfeyrac said. “Wait, I got it, I got it. Pull three tiles at random and you have to do all of them.”

“Okay.” Legle snatched the first one he saw. “Guys strip. Uh, is that everyone or just me since I’m the loser?”

“Just you,” Courfeyrac said. Legle shrugged out of his shirt and saluted. “All right, what’s next?”

“Let’s see…butt tattoo. So I’m drawing on someone?”

“No, I think you need to be drawn on. I wouldn’t inflict your artwork on someone else,” Joly said. “Get on the floor. I’ll draw you a cupcake.”

Legle glanced at Grantaire. “Can’t R draw me something cool?”

“I’m tapped. Besides, Joly’s cupcake should suit you,” Grantaire said.

Once Legle’s pants had dropped, Enjolras was forced to reassess his earlier beliefs about the hairiness of Courfeyrac’s ass. He wondered how Joly would manage to draw _anything_ without priming his canvas first. Still, he managed, and after a moment’s effort Legle’s rear was adorned with an adorable smiley faced cupcake.

“Cool, last one.” Legle didn’t bother doing his belt or his pants up, but merely yanked his boxers back into place and then grabbed his last tile. “Truth.”

Feuilly started to say something, but was immediately drowned out by Combeferre asking him if he had any intention of paying back any of the money he’d borrowed from his friends.

“Oh, I have every intention of doing so. Whether the intention will be met is another question entirely.”

“Good game, everyone!” Courfeyrac yelled. He handed out a round of Jell-o shots, and those who were drinking drank to the success of their first completed game of Drenga.

From there they finally got around to exchanging presents. Enjolras was gifted with several large and intimidating books on the absolute worst of human behavior, and he contentedly retreated to a corner with a glass of rum-free eggnog to investigate his new goodies. He was poring over a promising looking hardcover on the Salem Witch Trials when he overheard an argument between Grantaire and Bahorel.

“Here’s your present, dude. Well, I mean your second present. Kinda already gave you something during Drenga, and you are very much fucking welcome for that.”

“If I thought I could land the hit I’d punch you in your smug fucking face.”

“Huh?”

“Bahorel, you’re an asshole. Did you seriously think that was a favor, putting me on the spot like that?”

Bahorel faltered. “…but you _like_ Enjolras. I thought you were the only one in the circle who’d actually want to make out with anyone else in it.”

“Exactly. Enjolras would rather hug a conservative than hug me. It was excruciating, seeing how much he…fuck. And you know what the worst part was? I was gonna let him off the hook, but he felt duty bound to at least fucking kiss me. Can you imagine?”

“…so you did kiss him? Was it awesome?”

Enjolras almost missed the little longing whimper Grantaire gave, it was so faint.

“It was torture. He’s perfect, Bahorel. And I’m not and I’ll never even be close to good enough for him, and fuck my stupid drinking game for reminding me. That’s the closest I’m gonna get to it, y’know? Him going along with a fucking party game against his will and me being weak and giving in because I just wanted to pretend so god damn much. You know, for just one second that he might feel even a pathetic smidge of this agonizing devotion I have for him. I’d do fucking anything for him, Bahorel. Except, apparently, respecting his boundaries and being strong enough not to give in. Fuck. Well, Merry Christmas. I got you a pair of sunglasses that are even stupider than the ones you’re wearing now.”

“Dude, not really? Awesome! They’re fucking mirrored _and_ red. I’m gonna look like Cyclops.”

“Why you’d want to is beyond me, but Merry Christmas all the same.”

“Merry Christmas, bro.”

Enjolras was fairly well hidden in a little nook between the doorway and the bookcase, so Grantaire obviously hadn’t realized he was there while lamenting over their kiss. Enjolras waited until he shuffled off into the kitchen, then ducked out of his spot and ran across the room to Combeferre. “Are you ready to leave yet?”

Combeferre, more than a little tipsy, slowly blinked at him before offering an exaggeratedly warm smile. “Enjolras, I thought you were having fun at this one.”

“I am, but I’ve had enough and I’d like to retreat. And seeing as I’m your DD…”

Courfeyrac, who was thankfully wearing more than a pillow now that the game was done (in that he was wearing Joly’s fluffy bathrobe for some reason) came up behind Combeferre and wrapped his arms around him. “’Ferre can spend the night here if he wants. I’ll let you sleep in my bed even, and I’ll go so far as to promise not to molest you. Even though you’re very cute and I’d like to cuddle you.”

“Thanks, Courfeyrac, but I’ll be happy on your futon.”

“Are we making the sleeping arrangements already?” Bossuet asked, sounding a bit panicked.

Bahorel leaped over the back of the couch and landed with a bounce on the cushions. “Dibs!”

“Well someone’s got to cuddle with me in my bed!” Courfeyrac yelled. “I refuse to go to sleep after hosting a party of drunken debauchery alone.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Feuilly said.

“Should have invited more chicks,” Bahorel added.

“I invited plenty of girls, but when they found out you and R were coming suddenly they had other plans.”

“Right, well I’m heading out. Did anyone need a ride?” Enjolras asked.

“Enj, don’t go yet. The night is still young and you look like you need cuddles too.” Courfeyrac was still hugging Combeferre, and didn’t seem to know how to make an offer while that inebriated and with that much honor’s student already in his arms. “Where’s R? He could cuddle you.”

“Merry Christmas, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said firmly. “May your hangover be light.”

“Aw, you’re a sweetheart, Enj. Don’t ever let anyone say otherwise.”

Enjolras gathered up his things and crept out of the apartment.

* * *

Enjolras didn’t see Grantaire again until the first post-Christmas meet-up at the Musain. For some reason, he’d been expecting some sort of monumental change in the tone of their friendship, but Grantaire gave no sign anything had happened. With the way he’d been drinking, there was every likelihood he didn’t remember the events of the Drenga game, or maybe he was using the alcoholic fog as a ruse to not have to acknowledge kissing Enjolras after drawing on his naked ass cheek (incidentally, Enjolras had been able to get a look at the drawing with the help of a hand mirror in his own bathroom, and he’d been impressed with what he’d seen).

More likely, a quick and awkward coerced kiss wasn’t as big a deal to Grantaire as it was to Enjolras. But then there had been his passionately ashamed speech to Bahorel…

Enjolras went with the ruse, and didn’t mention Drenga at all unless his friends brought it up first, and even then he limited himself to mocking Feuilly’s singing voice or Bossuet’s lack of physical coordination, just like the rest of them.

Some Christmases later, Enjolras found the old Drenga set while he was looking for decorations for their tree. He and Grantaire had just got their first condo in New York, and with their friends still in Salem and Grantaire being busy with work, festive decorating had fallen to the half of the couple least able to successfully pull it off.

Glad of a reason to put off decorating for even a few minutes, Enjolras snatched the box with the faded wooden blocks in it and carried it upstairs to Grantaire’s art studio. He knocked on the door and waited for an acknowledgment.

“C’mon in. I’m just about done with this panel and I could use a break. Y’know, unless you need help with the lights. Then I’ve just been hit with a sudden burst of inspiration and need at least a few hours in here in perfect quiet and isolation.”

“You’re a jerk, but the condo will look like a delightful winter wonderland by the time I’ve finished with it.” Enjolras crossed the room and placed the box on Grantaire’s drafting table before climbing onto his lap. Grantaire wrapped his arms around him and greeted him with a slow kiss. Enjolras indulged him for a moment, then pulled away and tapped the box. “Do you remember this?”

“Jenga…oh, Drenga. Wow. Did I really hold onto that?”

“Mm. We went through my possessions much more carefully than yours when we combined households. The circumstances rather demanded it. I’d nearly forgotten this thing.” Enjolras affectionately patted the blocks. “We had our first kiss because of this game.”

“Yep. And I was too chicken shit to even acknowledge that it happened.” Grantaire frowned. “I still thought you hated me then.”

“You still convince yourself I hate you at least a couple of times a month, despite all the evidence to the contrary I can offer. It’s okay, love. I was still making up my mind about you then, too.”

“Were you?”

“Yes. I’d already decided I liked you, I just wasn’t sure I could date you without it turning into a horrific train wreck. You should feel touched. I was very concerned for your emotional health. I spent nearly a year practicing being nice so I wouldn’t accidentally wound you before I ever asked you out.”

“And by asking me out, you mean jumping me on your couch,” Grantaire said. His hands wandered as he spoke, sliding underneath Enjolras’ sweater.

“Yes, well at that point I was starting to lose patience. I could only be noble and self-sacrificing for so long, and I think I showed a lot of restraint. You were sarcastically throwing yourself at me nearly every time we spoke.”

“And you gave me a fucking heart attack when you took me up on it.” Grantaire planted a kiss on Enjolras’ jaw and then buried his face in the crook of his shoulder. “I’m so glad you did though. But since I’m four years sober, we should probably get rid of the drinking game. Even if there are a few fond memories tied to it.”

“I suppose. We certainly aren’t going to be using it anymore.” Enjolras tugged his fiancé’s hair to nudge him up for one more kiss, then disentangled himself from Grantaire’s lap and the rolling chair he was precariously perched upon. “All right, love. Get back to work. You’ve got two more deadlines before you’re allowed to relax and enjoy the holidays.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grantaire shooed him away and turned back to his clipboard.

Later that night, Grantaire emerged from his art room feeling hungry, lonely, and in desperate need of a change of scenery and some cuddles from his fiancé. He crept into the kitchen first, where he found a plate of spinach ravioli and a mug of tea waiting for him. He devoured his supper, then continued on into the living room.

At a casual glance, the room was beautifully decorated. You had to really examine the garlands in the doorways and windows to see how inexpertly they’d been fixed into place with scotch tape and thumb tacks, and if you didn’t realize the white lights taped to the piano legs originally had faceted plastic coverings over the bulbs then they looked perfectly enchanting as they were.

The tree stood in a place of prominence by Enjolras’ favorite bookcase, far enough from the fireplace and the radiators to speed along the drying out process. The lights were already on, but it looked like the struggle had cost the tree a sad amount of its needles. Grantaire couldn’t help but snort when he saw the piles of green on the tree skirt.

Other than the lights and the skirt, the tree was still bare. Their ornaments were lying around the tree in neatly stacked boxes. Apparently Enjolras had been waiting for him to finish the task, which he appreciated. Grantaire sat on the couch and snagged a candy cane from a little candy dish Musichetta had given them two Christmases ago and settled in to wait.

He didn’t have to wait long. After a few minutes Enjolras trudged into the room, freshly showered with his golden curls weighted down and darkened from their dampness. He was wearing a pair of Grantaire’s sweatpants and a promotional t-shirt from one of their comic con appearances and dragging the vacuum cleaner behind him. His face brightened when he saw Grantaire waiting for him. “Did you finish your work already?”

“I did. I see you got the lights on the tree by yourself this year. Am I right in guessing it was a battle of epic proportions?”

“I think I’m _still_ slightly pine scented despite showering, so I’ll let you draw what conclusions you will. Just let me vacuum up those needles, and then we can get started.”

The next hour or so passed in the kind of comfortable holiday spirit neither young man had ever expected to enjoy, given the Christmases they’d grown up with among their dysfunctional families. The tree decorating might have gone faster if they didn’t stop every few minutes to comment on an ornament that reminded them of one of their friends, or if Grantaire weren’t snap-chatting Courfeyrac so frequently, but efficiency wasn’t the point (and now that they’d decorated their third tree together, Enjolras finally seemed to have taken this lesson to heart).

“It’s looking pretty full, Enj. I think we’re ready for the star.”

“Wait, I’ve just got two more.”

“Where are we going to put them? I think we’ve covered every branch at this point.”

“These are special ornaments. They’re just for us, not the guests, so it doesn’t matter if they’re visible.” Enjolras placed a red velvet bag in Grantaire’s hands. “Merry Christmas, my love.”

Grantaire curiously opened the bag, and almost dropped the ornaments when he instantly cracked up upon viewing them.

Enjolras had hot-glued ornament hooks to two of the Drenga tiles: Butt Tattoo and Seven Minutes in Heaven. “I got rid of the rest of them, just like you asked, but I thought these two were special.”

“Do you seriously want these on the tree though?” Grantaire asked. Their tree had a very carefully selected color scheme consisting mostly of creams, silvers, and golds. Enjolras tried to stamp out the elitist leanings of his childhood and upbringing whenever he was able, but when it came to matters of décor he was hopelessly, endearingly classy, and other than a few handmade ornaments from Feuilly and Eponine’s daughter, their tree was a perfect demonstration of his conditioning.

“I don’t mind interrupting the color scheme as long as the ornaments have meaning,” Enjolras said. He tapped the clothespin reindeer Feuilly had gifted them with on his last trip as an emphasis.

“And these have meaning to you?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras took the Seven Minutes in Heaven ornament from him and hooked it onto a branch just behind a silver speckled poinsettia ornament that almost completely obscured it. “Our first kiss,” he said, before leaning in for what was quite possibly their billionth. “That’s very important to me, and full of meaning.”

“Mm. And the first time I saw your ass. Equally meaningful, I suppose?”

Enjolras blushed a little, but nodded. “You could have drawn anything on me, you know. You could have been dreadfully inappropriate and intentionally humiliating or whatever, but instead you took the time to draw something I’d like. I actually was sad when the flag washed off, you know.”

“Well, luckily you’ve got a replacement now.” Grantaire brushed his fingers over Enjolras’ hip, where an actual tattoo of Grantaire’s own design was hidden under Enjolras’ clothes and only ever viewed by his soon-to-be husband.

“Mm. I am exceptionally lucky.” Kiss one billion and one took place, and then they both considered the ornament, which was resting between their joined hands.

“I don’t know, Enj. I’m glad you kept it, but I’m not sure if I want Butt Tattoo hanging on the tree. I don’t want to explain this one to visitors.”

“You’re probably right. I put a mini tree on the dresser in the bedroom. We can hang it there instead.”

“Sounds good to me. Enj…Merry Christmas.”

Enjolras smiled brightly at him. “Merry Christmas, ‘Taire.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Remember, commenting on fics totally count as Christmas presents for the writer ;)


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